


and a camera to match

by coricomile



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 21:59:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14029656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: Ryan isn't- Ryan isn'thot, per se. He and Dylan have similar faces, and Dylan is about as attractive as a potato. Connor lives withHallsy, who checks all the hot boxes and has the habit of walking around naked at home because he can. If he has to get stupid over some guy, he doesn't understand why it'sRyanof all people.





	and a camera to match

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rocketsfindplanets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocketsfindplanets/gifts).
  * Inspired by [bad lighting and a gritty camera](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13095315) by [rocketsfindplanets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocketsfindplanets/pseuds/rocketsfindplanets). 



Mitch and Dylan are arguing. Putting them in the same room together always ends like this, with Mitch's snide jabs and Dylan's escalating anger growing until he snaps. Connor doesn't understand why they hang out in the first place, or why they have to drag him into their bullshit every time they're all in the same place, but he's missed them. It's been a long year, a hard year, and if he has to listen to Mitch and Dylan argue about video games for another hour just to be near them- well. It can be done, even if it's not always pleasant. 

He does make his escape to the kitchen when the argument reaches full blown wrestling. There are no winners when Mitch and Dylan wrestle. It took a long time to learn that, but sometimes they just need to work it out on their own with real violence, and Connor is happy enough to escape them. Their voices carry all the way down the hall, both of them so high pitched that Connor can't make out the actual words. He ignores it and goes for a beer. 

He's digging through the junk drawer for the bottle opener when the sliding glass door opens. Ryan slips inside, pink and damp with sweat, his shorts riding low on his hips and his shirt draped over his shoulder. Connor's been here for a week already, but he's only seen Ryan maybe twice in passing. They don't hang out, not really- Ryan's got his own people, has always been just older enough that he was too cool to hang out with his little brother and his friends- but Connor still nods at him. 

"Get me one too, eh?" Ryan says as he wipes his forehead off with his shirt. He's not as ripped as some of the guys Connor's played with, but the cut of his hips is sharp and his nipples are hard from the blasting A/C. Connor ducks his head and does as he's told. Something crashes in the entertainment room and Connor winces. He hopes it wasn't the TV. Again. "Some things never change."

"One day they'll get over it," Connor says. He doesn't know if they will- part of him thinks their friendship is based solely on winning the upper hand- but he's always been an optimist at heart. It's what's gotten him so far. Ryan snorts and takes the beer from him. 

"Keep telling yourself that," he says. He pops the cap of his bottle with the edge of the counter, hands it over, and then repeats with the second bottle. He looks at Connor for a long moment, the sounds of Mitch and Dylan's fight echoing through the quiet room. "I usually go running around this time every day if you want to come with. It's better than being around those idiots all the time."

"Cool," Connor says. He can only hope it doesn't sound as awkward as he feels. "I'll think about it." Ryan gives him a half salute with his beer and heads towards the stairs. Connor takes a long drink, steels himself, and marches back into the entertainment room to either break Mitch and Dylan apart or throw them both outside until they cool down. 

\---

Connor does take Ryan up on his offer, in the end. He likes running. It's easy enough, and the rhythm is soothing in its predictability. He keeps pace with Ryan and soaks in the sun. The park trail Ryan likes to run through is pretty and mostly empty, and Ryan isn't much of a talker. They do a couple of miles each day in silent company and have a drink when they get back before splitting off into their own directions. It's a good routine, even if Dylan complains non-stop about Connor abandoning him. 

It's a little strange, though. Connor hasn't thought of himself as a _kid_ for a long time, and Ryan's only three years older, but something about him makes Connor feel young and awkward. He's the captain of a fucking NHL team. He's got millions in the bank. He shouldn't be fumbling his words every time Ryan tries to talk to him, but he can't help it. 

Ryan isn't- Ryan isn't _hot_ , per se. He and Dylan have similar faces, and Dylan is about as attractive as a potato. Connor lives with _Hallsy_ , who checks all the hot boxes and has the habit of walking around naked at home because he can. If he has to get stupid over some guy, he doesn't understand why it's _Ryan_ of all people. 

"Yo," Ryan says, prodding at Connor's sunburnt cheek with a fingertip. "Earth to Davo." 

"Sorry," Connor mutters, batting Ryan's hand away. 

They're both still sweaty from the run, sprawled out in the glider on the back porch with their beers. Dylan and Mitch had ditched them to play darts with one of Dylan's old school buddies. Probably Connor should have gone with them. There's only a few days of his vacation left and then he's back to Edmonton, back to the in and out grind of hockey, of trying to make his team suck less single handedly. 

Today is Ryan's last day in town, though, and Connor thinks that even if they aren't exactly friends, they're something. Good acquaintances? Sympathizers? Something enough that Connor doesn't want to leave him hanging alone in the Strome house because Dylan is a jealous dick. 

"Where's your head at?" Ryan asks. He rocks the glider slowly with one foot and Connor pulls his legs up to keep from interrupting the momentum. 

"I don't know if I'm ready to go back," Conor says. Once he's there, he'll _be_ there. He takes his responsibilities seriously, he loves playing, and he misses the guys. But right now, he doesn't want to leave the Strome house, doesn't want to leave this new easy routine all of them have made together. 

"Don't start on that shit," Ryan says. He thuds the bottom of his bottle against Connor's thigh. It's wet and cold and Connor flinches. "You're making big the bucks, making history, etcetera etcetera. You're practically a rookie still, man. Just enjoy it." 

"I'm the _captain_ ," Connor says. It still blows his mind, just a little. He wonders if this is what Crosby felt like, what Toews felt like- too stupid to do what he needs to, too shy to dress down the vets, too inexperienced to dig his team out of the hole they've put themselves in. He's supposed to be some sort of hockey messiah, but there are days when he still forgets to bring his extra jersey for practice. 

"Yeah, so?" Ryan drains his beer and chucks the bottle toward the recycling bin at the edge of the porch. It crashes off the back, but it goes in. "Look, I know about playing on shitty teams, alright? Do what you're going to do, work on yourself, whatever. But don't do the hockey savior bullshit, man. I don't want to hear it." Ryan flicks Connor in the forehead before standing up, the glider rocking wildly with his momentum. "Come on. We're getting hammered."

"I don't want to get hammered," Connor says, even as he gets up to follow Ryan back into the house. The blast of air conditioning that hits him as soon as the sliding glass door opens sends a shiver up Connor's spine. Getting flat out drunk alone with Ryan seems like a bad idea, but-

"Too bad," Ryan says. "Come on. I hid the good stuff from the brats." He leads Connor through the house, all the way up to the attic. It's a little dusty, boxes of stuff strewn everywhere across the hardwood. The fading sunlight filters in through the grimy window and makes everything look a little orange, a little surreal. Ryan opens a wooden chest that's partly hidden under a stack of blankets and triumphantly pulls out a bottle of Crown Royal Black. 

"Seriously?" Connor asks as Ryan cracks the lid. "That's the good stuff you had to hide?" Ryan takes a sip straight from the bottle and flips Connor the bird. 

"Next time, you buy the fancy whiskey," he says. He hands over the bottle and Connor tries to ignore the way his stomach tightens at the overlap of their fingers as he takes it. He's too old for this. 

Whiskey will probably never be his drink, especially _warm_ whiskey, but Ryan's watching him expectantly and Connor has never been good at telling people no. He takes a long drink and manages not to choke on it, which he counts as a win. 

"Atta boy, Davo," Ryan says with a grin. He drops a pair of dusty throw pillows onto the floor and looks around for a moment, his eyebrows twitching together. "I think we've got-" He pokes around in the boxes while Connor examines the rest of the attic. 

There's kids' trophies piled up in one corner, tiny clothes and stuffed animals that probably haven't seen daylight in years next to them. Connor picks up a gray, well-worn dog with a Leafs handkerchief. It smells like it's been in an attic for forever, but its fur is still soft and it has a doofy stitched-on smile that makes it look sweet. Connor wonders if it was Dylan's, or maybe Ryan's. If they slept with it before shipping off. 

"I think the pieces are still here," Ryan says. Connor drops the stuffed toy and takes another drink from the bottle. It tastes better the second time around, at least. In awhile, he probably won't notice at all. 

"The pieces of what?" Connor asks. Ryan jangles whatever's in his hand and thumps down onto the floor. 

"We, my friend, are going to play chess," Ryan says. He gestures impatiently to the other pillow across from him and Connor reluctantly sits. 

"I don't know how to play chess," he says. He tried to learn once before, but Ebs was a shitty player and even shittier teacher, so mostly all Connor remembers is that the horse things make Ls. "Do you know how to play chess?"

"Nope," Ryan says as he starts separating the pieces. 

The board itself is old, scarred wood, the squares stained into lighter and darker brown. The pieces look hand-carved. Someone had loved it once. It's almost sad that it's going to rot up here with the rest of the Strome junk. Connor sets the bottle next to the board and pulls a blanket free. He's freezing now that they're out of the sun. He doesn't know if it's being here, surrounded by all of the stuff from at least three childhoods, or if it's the end of summer closing in on them, but he feels- safe. Small, in a way that has nothing at all to do with size. 

"Three rules," Ryan says as soon as the pieces are on the board. They don't look totally right, but it's not like Connor would know any better. "One: no talking about hockey." That kills about seventy percent of anything they could say to each other, but Connor isn't going to fight it. "Two: drink every turn. Three: winner is the one who gets the most pieces."

"What does the winner get?" Connor asks. He has the white ones, which he thinks means he goes first. 

"Prize to be decided at the end of the game," Ryan says. It's a lot how Cameron used to set games up, and Connor doesn't know if he should roll his eyes or be grateful that Ryan's bullying him into being less of a mope. "Alright, McJesus. You're up. Drink."

Together, they manage to make some sort of rules for the game. It's more like checkers than chess, but they've given each different piece its own special power move, which gets harder to remember the longer they play. Connor starts out the game taking tiny sips, but Ryan gives him an unimpressed look and pointedly takes a full on shot, and- well. Connor might not be as tightly wound as Dylan and Mitch, but he's got competition deep in his blood. 

Ryan tells him stories about playing in the woods with Dylan and Matt when they were kids and Connor tells him about the time he'd tried to run away when he was six because he really, really, _really_ wanted to live on a houseboat and thought he could steal one. It's easier than he thought to talk to Ryan, even with hockey removed, and the whiskey keeps his tongue loose. 

When the sun finally goes down, Ryan stands all the way on his toes to grab the hanging chain for the overhead light. Connor can see the shape of Ryan's dick through his shorts, and it's _right there_ in front of his face. He takes an extra drink, even though its not his turn, and makes himself look away. 

Connor wins by the skin of his teeth. They spend at least twenty minutes playing cat and mouse with their kings, and the bottle of Crown is done before they are. Connor throws his hands up in victory after he _finally_ corners Ryan's king and tips over backward, laughing the whole way down. He feels bubbly and giddy, a bit like he's got a secret world up here in the Strome attic, so far away from the real world. 

"What did I win?" He asks when he catches his breath. 

Ryan's staring at him, the corner of his mouth curled up. It looks fond, like he thinks Connor's at least sort of funny. That's nice, too. No one outside of a handful of people on his team- and Dylan, and Mitch- thinks he's funny. They all treat him like he's some distant creature to be observed instead of a stupid teenager that spent too much time alone practicing his shooting skills. 

"You get one thing," Ryan says, holding up a single finger. His cheeks are pink and his mouth is a wet. They're both still shirtless. Connor had somehow forgotten about it, too focused on their game, but now all he can see is the soft definition of Ryan's pecs, the pale line of hair just above the waistband of Ryan's shorts. "To be delivered in the next six hours on the cheap. Make it something good."

"Can you-" Connor swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. It's either the booze or the fuzzy, never ending summer feel that has sunk deep inside of him that gives him the courage- or the stupidity- to ask. "Can you kiss me?"

"Davo-"

"Right, right." Connor scrambles to his feet, pausing at the head rush. "I'm drunk. I should sleep it off."

"That's all you want?" Ryan asks, still laying back on the floor. He rests a hand on his flat stomach, his fingers spreading wide over his abs. 

"Forget it," Connor says. The bubbly, effervescent feeling from before crashes down around him. He just feels sick. "I'm going to bed. Sorry." 

He's almost free of the attic when Ryan grabs him around the waist, hauling him back. They're the same size, but Connor feels small next to him, weak. He balls his fist up, ready to strike, but freezes when Ryan's lips brush against the back of his neck. He's so warm, so solid. Connor doesn't know if he should lean back into it or run away. Ryan smooths his hand over Connor's side, all the way down to his hip. He holds on and Connor closes his eyes, fighting off the shakes that want to overcome him. 

"A kiss," Ryan says, his breath hot against Connor's skin. "Is that all you want?" He tucks his thumb under the waistband of Connor's shorts and tugs, just a little. "Take me to bed with you."

"Dylan-"

"He's out with Mitch," Ryan says. He kisses the cap of Connor's shoulder, the curve of his neck. "You won. Let me give you what you want."

"Okay," Connor says. He curls his fingers around Ryan's wrist, feels the steady pump of his pulse. "Let's go."

\---

Connor wakes up alone, tangled in the sheets, slightly hungover, and itchy with dried jizz. It's not unexpected, but his chest still aches. He'd thought maybe Ryan would wake him up before he went, that maybe they'd do it again. That maybe- It doesn't matter. It was just a hookup. He'll- He won't forget about it, but he'll go back to Edmonton in two days and start his life back up with his boys. 

"Yo, Davo," Dylan calls through the door. Connor presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. He's not going to get sympathy at all. "It's your turn to cook breakfast."

"Fuck off," Connor yells back. His mouth is dry and his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. He's a shitty cook on the best of days, and he doubts he's going to be able to focus much on anything at all today. 

The door cracks open and Connor has just enough time to turn onto his side and yank the sheets up before Dylan launches himself across the room. Dylan is fucking heavy and his elbow catches Connor right in the middle of the chest as they scramble. Connor gives up the fight quick. He's naked, his head hurts, and he spent last night fucking his best friend's brother. 

Fuck. _Fuck_. 

"Get up, asshole," Dylan says, flopping off to the side. "Ryan said you got hammered last night- _without me_ \- but he's gone now, so there's no one here to protect you from us. We're playing Guitar Hero. Mitch is getting the drums out of the garage right now." 

"I'm not playing Guitar Hero," Connor says. The weight of it hits him all at once. He can't tell Dylan. There's no fucking way. 

"You are," Dylan says. He turns surprisingly sharp eyes on Connor, his mouth pressed into a flat line. Connor looks away. "Come on. You've got eggs and shit to make." He thumps Connor on the chest and rolls off the bed. "I want bacon."

Connor waits until the door is closed again to sit up. He doesn't think there's any incriminating evidence on him that can't be washed away. It's for the best, really. He doesn't need to think about it, doesn't need any reminder of his mistake. Still, when he grabs his phone off the nightstand, he hesitates. 

Before he can think too much about it, he takes a photo of himself sitting in the mess of sheets. It's shitty- too dark and a little blurry because his hand is shaking. He looks like a wreck, his hair standing on end, the acne he still hasn't been able to get rid of highlighted by the shadows, his mouth half open and his eyes half closed. He sends it to Ryan. 

If he has to hang onto the guilt, at least he won't be alone.


End file.
